


We’ll Dress You Up Like You’re Good and New

by runningsissors



Category: Twilight Series - Stephenie Meyer
Genre: Book: New Moon, Canon Compliant, F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-25
Updated: 2014-01-25
Packaged: 2018-01-10 00:39:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,806
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1152735
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/runningsissors/pseuds/runningsissors
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"It’s stupid, but you take the small things. It’s all she really gives anyway."</p>
            </blockquote>





	We’ll Dress You Up Like You’re Good and New

**Author's Note:**

> Writtten in 2010 - NM pre-wolf-transformation

You realize for the first time that you’re in love with Bella when she goes flying over the handles of her motorcycle.

For the pure knee buckling pang that goes through your chest when you see that damn bike hit the ground is so intense you think you might actually throw-up.

This has to be love, you think to yourself as you pull the bike off her tiny little body with strength you didn’t know you possessed, and a mantra in your head is going please let her be okay, please let her be okay. 

And when she smiles up at you with dirt and blood smearing her pale skin, all you want to do is tell her that you love her.

You’ve never seen this much life in Bella’s eyes; never seen this much spirit.

 

\+ 

 

She continues to fall, each time a little more like a punch in the gut as you watch her tumble off the motorcycle and skid along the ground. You’re half way to the hospital – again – when suddenly she’s yelling at you to pull over onto the shoulder. She gets the truck door open just in time to throw-up on the side of the road, and you know something unusual is up. 

 

You’ve learned that she’s stubborn, but this is more than that. She’s got this weird desperate look in her eyes, like she’s trying to catch something just out of her grasp. It’s like she’s purposely ignoring all the things you tell her. Does she actually want to hurt herself? 

 

You shouldn’t have let her get back on that bike. You should have told her no. She could have a concussion, and God knows what else she’ll do to herself if she continues to ride with such determined recklessness. 

 

“I’m sorry, Jake,” she mumbles, wiping at her mouth and looking over at you with a guilty expression. “I promise next time I’ll be more careful. I just got excited and lost my grip on the clutch. I won’t let it happen again.” 

 

Somehow you don’t quite believe her. 

 

 

+

 

 

Your fist connects with the door so hard you swear paint will flake off. You’re not quite sure why you’re standing here. Maybe talking with Bella has made you realize just how much this is all so fucking stupid. 

 

You knock again. You can hear the sound of shouting voices coming from inside. 

 

You haven’t heard Embry’s mom this angry since she found that bong under his bed over Christmas break. 

 

“What the hell could you be doing that’s more important than showing up to school every day?” she yells, her voice clear enough to hear from the front porch. “Embry, don’t you dare walk out that door again!” 

 

A few seconds later the door swings violently open, just missing your nose, and you’re face to face with a clenched jawed Embry. He barrels right past you and heads down his drive-way like you’re not even there. 

 

“Em, man,” you call, chasing after him. “What the fu-” 

 

“I can’t talk right now.” He snaps, focus completely on what's in front of him. What the hell is going on with him? You've never seen him like this, not once in all the years you've been friends. 

 

“Embry wait!”

 

He doesn’t even look at you, just heads across the street and towards the woods behind his neighbour’s yard before he disappears from view entirely. 

 

\+ 

 

“So, I went to see Embry yesterday.” 

 

“How did it go?” Bella asks quickly, head popping up over the clothes rack with wide, interested eyes. 

 

You sigh, hands shifting through hangers. “It didn’t. He blew me off.” 

 

Her hand reaches out across the rack and rubs your arm in what you can tell is meant to be a comforting gesture. “I'm so sorry, Jake,” she mumbles, hand squeezing your wrist gently. “He'll come around.” 

 

You can't help but grin at her, even if it’s not totally natural. She’s trying to focus on other people, just like she told you she would. You can see she’s trying so hard these days to smile more and keep her hands too busy to wrap around herself. 

 

Maybe that’s why she’s been so pushy about these bikes. It’s a way to keep her busy from getting depressed. You’d told her that if you were going to continue with the bikes then she’d need a helmet. You don’t want to be on Charlie’s bad side. 

 

She had rolled her eyes, but agreed. A helmet for her and jackets for both of you from the consignment shop in Port Angeles. 

 

“And if he doesn’t,” she adds with a small grin, “then he’s crazy. Any person would be more than lucky to have you as a friend. You’re the best.” 

 

“Thanks, Bells” you chuckle, “I was beginning to think you didn’t appreciate me.” You meant it to be a joke, something she would roll her eyes and maybe shake her head at. But quickly her smile fades and she looks up at you like a deer caught in the head lights. She looks so worried it would be adorable if you didn’t already feel like you had to walk on egg shells around her. 

 

“You don’t actually think that do you?” she asks, panic spreading into her voice. “Because I don’t know what I’d do without you, Jake. I mean that! If it wer-”

 

“Bella,” you cut in with a smile, trying to calm her down, “I was just joking! I already know how much you adore the ground I walk on.” You look back down at the jackets on the rack in front of you, catching out of the corner of your eye her blush and the tiny smile that tugs at her lips. 

 

It’s actually pathetic that you’re happy she got upset over thinking that you didn’t think she appreciated you. Obviously you’re doing something right, though, so that’s always a bonus. 

 

“So,” Bella begins, an announcement for a price check on used puzzles booming through the loud speaker. “Do you know anything about surfing?” 

 

“Why, looking for a new way of get head injuries?” You pull a leather jacket from the rack and hold it up her. She scowls, shaking her head and continues to head down the aisle. 

 

“I was just thinking I’d like to learn, you know? I’ve lived in Forks for almost a year, and I’ve barely done anything it seems.” 

 

You laugh. The thought of Bella riding a wave is incredibly unlikely, like the chances of her successfully getting one, let alone getting in the water is completely ridiculous, but you’ll humour her all the same. “I know a bit, but I’m not very good at it.” Your legs and arms were always far too long to manoeuvre the drag of the waves. “Only assholes and white kids surf anyway.” You pause, “maybe you should ask your friend Mitch or whatever.” 

 

God, you feel so stupid. Obviously she’s getting tired of always hanging out with you an- 

 

You can’t help the wide smile that appears when Bella snorts rather loudly and says she’d rather you teach her any day over Mike Newton. It’s stupid, but you take the small things. It’s all she really gives anyway. 

 

“Hey,” Bella rushes around to your side, a worn, black leather jacket in her arms. “Try this one!” 

 

It’s cracked and wrinkled like the skin of Old Quil or something like that. It looks more like Top Gun than the Fonz, but you suppose it’s okay. You slip it on, ignoring the smell of stale cigarettes that lingers, and look back up at Bella. 

 

“So,” you ask, popping the collar slightly and fixing the sleeves, “do I look like a complete idiot?” 

 

She stares at you a moment, her mouth open just enough for her tongue to wet the inner corner of her lip. You suddenly wish you hadn’t thrown on your jeans with the grease stain right by the crotch. Then she smiles. If you weren’t going to get the jacket before, you definitely are now. 

 

“You look great.” 

 

+

 

Quil says she’s bipolar. “Like Jekyll and Hyde”, he whispers over his Chemistry textbook. “One minute she’s grinning and shit, and then bam, she’s big and green and angry; except less angry and more pathetically mopey.” 

 

“That’s the Hulk, asshole,” you mutter, trying to focus on your sugar molecule breakdown, “and she’s not pathetic. She’s just depressed.” At least that what’s you tell yourself. Rachel was like that when your mom died. She went through periods of being fine and normal, and then something would set her off and no one could bring her out of her room; not even Becca. 

 

She’ll get over it – whatever it is exactly that’s got her so messed up, and when she does, you want her to know you were there beside her the whole time. That you didn’t abandon her just because she didn’t laugh at all your jokes, understand all your off hand pop culture references, or pick up on your subtle (and okay maybe not so subtle) attempts at flirting with her. 

 

You want her to know that you love her; that she’s not just some crush you’ll get over eventually, and that you waited for her to become herself again. Because she will become herself again someday, you know it. No hurt is too deep to heal, your dad had told you once, it just takes time, and you have all the time in the world for Bella. 

 

You always will.

 

 

\+ 

 

You finish up the last minute touches, throwing down your cloth with a satisfactory grin. 

 

God you hope she’s impressed. You’d do anything these days to get a leg up on your uh, situation with Bella. Sometimes it worries you how desperately you want Bella to be into you even a quarter as much as you’re into her. That maybe she’ll never accept your love, let alone reciprocate it. That as much as you tell yourself you’re totally fine being whatever Bella wants you to be, that secretly maybe you’re not strong enough to just be her friend and nothing more. 

 

You look at the clock, it’s almost three and you want to surprise her before all her friends show up for the movie. 

 

You quickly run around your room looking for a clean shirt, or at least one that doesn’t smell like grime and sweat, and then you’re out the door, keys held tightly in your hand. 

 

You’re half way there when your head starts to throb with a dull ache. You notice that your skin feels tight, like there’s not enough room, and your palms are really hot, like they’ll melt against the steering wheel. Damn, you cannot be getting sick. Not tonight. 

 

You ignore it, push it away and drive on. You won’t let a little fever ruin your night.


End file.
